


Standing in the Light of your Halo

by Marbled Wings (LynxRyder)



Series: a starving heart and a smile that makes it race [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is smitten, Crowley plays the Piano, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, all the softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 07:35:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20991197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynxRyder/pseuds/Marbled%20Wings
Summary: Crowley makes a spur of the moment decision to show off his piano playing skills, and Aziraphale melts. Pure fluff.





	Standing in the Light of your Halo

**Author's Note:**

> I needed something purely soft and happy. There is no other reason for this.

It starts with an old piano in the foyer of an even older hotel.

‘Oh, Crowley! Look!’

Aziraphale lets go of Crowley’s hand to rush forwards, attaining a speed he rarely achieves after dinner or indeed at any time. It is not the piano itself that has him entranced but the display someone has arranged atop its polished lid. A riot of roses spills over the wooden surface, roses with orange hearts that bleed into deepest red. Crowley appreciates the artistry, the many varieties of rose is a source of much fascination. Aziraphale is already leaning towards them, breathing in their scent, his delight brightening the room every bit as effectively as the floral spectacle.

Brimful of love as it always is these days, Crowley’s heart still manages to skip a beat as he takes in the holy wonder of his angel surrounded by autumn roses. He will put what happens next down to the momentary loss of blood to his brain, choosing to disregard entirely that he is not and never will be a slave to basic human biology.

Crowley draws alongside Aziraphale, brushes hand against hand, the thrill of doing something deliberately that once would have been a treasured accident has not yet dissipated. Crowley does not think it ever will. Before Aziraphale can say more than, ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ Crowley has stepped away from him and slid onto the empty piano stool, his fingers finding their place on the keys without him having to think.

There was a time when he had played every night for years and many of the songs have not been forgotten. Crowley takes a mere second to choose one and for three minutes the music is all these is, fingers on keys, hammers striking strings, and words silent on lips that do not open. He used to sing too, once upon a time. For now though, the playing is enough. 

The silence after the last note stretches out before a smattering of applause tells Crowley that he has amassed a small audience. He grants them the briefest of glances before he looks up into the face of the only one who matters. What he sees there makes him want to cast aside his dark glasses and bask in the full, unfiltered glory of Aziraphale’s blue eyed amazement.

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale breathes his name as if he is not worthy of speaking it, as if that could ever be. ‘Oh, my dear, I never knew you played.’

Crowley shrugs, immediately brushing off any suggestion that this might be considered an achievement. Eternity tends to provide the two things essential for the acquirement of any skill - time and boredom. It's no more than basic mathematics. Not that Crowley has ever been bored enough to feel the need to master algebra.

‘No big deal,’ he says, shifting uncomfortably where he sits, ‘Was nothing special.’

He is beginning to wish he had not given in to his impulse to show off in public especially as Aziraphale’s response is a bit too heavy on the veneration and far too light on the kisses on the neck. He moves to stand but Aziraphale lays a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place.

‘Would you play something else?’ he asks, and then quiet, soft, ‘Please.’

It is the key to the lock, as well Aziraphale knows. Crowley is helpless in the face of please.

‘Any requests?’ he asks, regretting it immediately when he considers Aziraphale’s taste in music. Crowley might be able to stumble through a fair number of songs from a variety of eras but if Aziraphale is in the mood for a requiem then he is going to be bitterly disappointed. Perhaps in response to the new tension he feels beneath his palm, Aziraphale gives Crowley’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

‘Surprise me,’ he says.

And isn’t it miraculous that after six thousand years this is still possible? That there are things buried deep in both of them that the other has yet to see? This realisation is a bit too much for Crowley so he focuses instead on the weight of Aziraphale’s hand, the gentle reassurance of his presence so close. He takes a breath and starts to play.

Crowley has played this particular song more times than he can count. Back when he was playing in public he would imagine Aziraphale in the audience, hidden by the dim lights, swirling the wine in his glass. Most of the time Crowley kept his fantasies there but sometimes, when he was feeling the weight of his longing particularly keenly, he would imagine the song working on Aziraphale like a confession. The audience used to love that, the heightened emotion, the love he usually tried to deny even to himself flowing out into the world. 

It’s different with Aziraphale beside him though. The love has somewhere to go, there’s no need to pretend any more. Perhaps that’s why the music feels lighter somehow, more playful. There’s no pain in it at all.

‘Could you play that one again?’ Aziraphale asks. He is leaning over, crowding Crowley in a way that makes him feel completely encircled by his love and attention.

‘Sit down,’ says Crowley, scooting over. The press of Aziraphale’s thigh against his is more than a little distracting. It’s going to be impossible to play flawlessly with Aziraphale sitting close enough for their elbows to tangle together. Crowley clears his throat, tells himself that he is merely making up for the new restrictions in his performance. 

The moment Crowley starts to sing a warm glow begins to suffuse the air, originating from the angel beside him. Suddenly anyone in the vicinity who has been drawing closer finds that they cannot get near enough to hear the words and that, after a moment or two, something pressing occurs to them causing them to hurry off. And thus Aziraphale ensures that they are left completely alone in the middle of a far from empty room.

When Aziraphale slips his arm around Crowley, laying his head on his shoulder, Crowley fumbles a note, forgetting the next few words. He has definitely sung this better, he’s played better too, but when he finishes Aziraphale’s sigh of pure contentment tells him that his angel is far from disappointed.

‘Crowley, that was…’ He tries to master the tremble in his voice. ‘Really, darling, that was incredibly beautiful.’

Crowley plays a few more notes, wanting the moment to last a little longer. He would play the same song for eternity if that’s what Aziraphale commanded. If they were this close while he did then it would be no hardship at all.

‘Will you sing for me like that again?’ Aziraphale asks, ‘At home?’

‘If you like,’ says Crowley, ignoring the squirming feeling of embarrassment that threatens to ruin his pleasure.

‘Perhaps we should get a piano,’ says Aziraphale reaching out and pressing down on one of the keys. He does not know how to play, this much is obvious, and Crowley wonders whether in all the centuries of the instrument’s existence Aziraphale has ever tried to learn.

‘Not sure the bookshop’s big enough,’ says Crowley. They have talked tentatively about moving somewhere else, finding someplace that is theirs. Somewhere out of London, away from the noise and the crush of people and the reminders of all the places they hurt each other, somewhere near the sea. Crowley, who wants this more than Aziraphale, knows it is unlikely to happen any time soon if it ever happens at all. He is resigned to this, it’s not a problem. Crowley likes the bookshop, would live there forever if it means getting to wake up with an angel in his arms.

‘Perhaps not,’ Aziraphale agrees, ‘Something to consider for the new place, when we start looking.’

Crowley experiences a minor delay between hearing the words and understanding them.

‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘Right. Whatever you want, angel.’

Aziraphale tightens his hold around him, doesn’t tease him for freezing over the mere suggestion that house hunting might be on the horizon and Crowley is so grateful for this small mercy that he lays his head on Aziraphale’s. Curls tickle the side of his face as Aziraphale finds Crowley’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

‘We can always come back here,’ says Crowley, pushing the words past the lump in his throat, ‘I’ll play for you any time.’

‘I will hold you to that, my dear.’

Linked body and soul, they stay where they are. Surrounded by the scent of a hundred autumnal roses, only the two of them are aware of the dreams coming true in the gentle silence soft songs leave behind in their wake. 

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley can be playing/singing any song your heart desires but the inspiration for this came from Postmodern Jukebox's version of Halo (though I imagine Crowley would put his own unique spin on it). 
> 
> There is likely to be one more in this (very loose) series and I plan on it being just as soft. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr @marbledwings


End file.
